


Debts and Favours (An Official Wedding)

by BrytteMystere



Series: The Fae!Claire AU [7]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Fae!Claire Beauchamp, The wedding, Two updates in a day? Joke's on you it is 4am, Yes this goes chronologically before Retribution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:00:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27411592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrytteMystere/pseuds/BrytteMystere
Summary: Jamie and Claire are free to show their love, shadows of the future haunt Jamie's dreams, and a widow is owed a corpse. (She'll get it)
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Series: The Fae!Claire AU [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646914
Kudos: 14





	Debts and Favours (An Official Wedding)

The very last thing Claire had felt like after the events at the Garrison was a gallop, and the small hike down to a stinking spring - St. Ninian's or not - hadn't improved her overall mood.

No, she was still… out of sorts.

Yet there, after a rather overwhelming scene with Dougal MacKenzie in which she could have legitimately had him try to murder her had she lied, supposedly, or even worse, tried to cajole her into marrying  _ him… _

She was at last back by her husband's side, his very presence a balm to her weary soul even as she held the contract that would make their marriage official to all.

With him he'd brought liquor, and even better, his steady warmth, the sheer life, forever stubborn, forever defiant, sinking deep into her and seeming to wash away the tar that had been clogging her away.

Claire was still bruised, still frayed, yet with him… there was a measure of peace she hadn't been able to find before. She could almost pretend she was whole, instead of fraying at the edges, unravelling without any sign of stopping any time soon.

"Jamie…"

He held her close, liquor forgotten as his fingers carefully threaded through her hair.

There was no need to speak. She could  _ feel him, _ with the thrum of his heartbeat, with the steadiness of his warmth… his love, flowing into her, their friendship, strengthened beyond measure into this… bond that seemed to echo within their hearts.

His love, her love. Meeting, entwining, making a greater whole together than they ever could apart.

She wondered, of course. How could she not? Memories kept surfacing, whisper thin and frustratingly ethereal, but the beast within could no longer be denied. Claire had been forced to acknowledge part of it, when she had killed Laoghaire in a fit of jealousy.

Yet never before had it been brought to the surface quite like this, she thought, even as the feeling of  _ wrong, lie,  _ echoed through her heart.

There were things she was not yet ready to face, not with her soul and body still smarting from her encounter with that beast that dared to claim the same surname as her first husband.

_ A pile of corpses swallowing her up, bloated bodies surrounding her in dripping fluids and all manner of insects while gunshots kept sounding in the distance… _

_ "Sassenach. Sorcha. Come back." _

She startled, before gratefully melting back into him, taking in his musk, of man, river water and horse, letting it take from her mind lavender and rot.

She wanted his skin on her own, yet didn't quite dare to do too much when the other men could interrupt them at any moment. So she contented herself with the warmth she could still feel through his shirt, and his legs.

Now, Claire had been caressing his knee, and the very start of his thigh for a while before she realized that his breath on her neck, his heartbeat beneath her fingers as she traced the very place wherein his popliteal artery would be, had slowly yet steadily picked up pace.

And, as she moved, her skirts dragging over him with the motion, he made a sound that fully cleared up the situation.

Their eyes met, and she was gratified to the core at knowing he could still blush for her. So in her quest to fully distract herself with him, with  _ them,  _ and leave less pleasant memories behind, one hand, the one holding the marriage contract, drew him in for a kiss, the parchment slightly crinkling against his nape, while the other at last slid beneath his kilt, and found him ready.

Claire was far from the most experienced of women, but she had always been curious and deeply invested in showing her love in a myriad of ways.

So she took her time, drinking in his every gasp, delighting in the very feel of his skin, his pulse throbbing in her hand. His pleasure, his joy, at her command.

They laid there, lost in their own world, for their own small eternity.

* * *

**_Earlier That Day_ **

Jamie had been dealing with the horses, Murtagh close by, if mostly as a measure to keep him from dashing towards his wife, and checking up on her.

He had been itching to get on Donas and ride to her, come what may, the very moment he felt her emotions spiking, a dizzying gallop of negativity that made him shift from wanting to stab his dirk into someone's very heart towards having to lean on his horse to avoid falling.

What could have brought upon such emotions in Claire - his Sorcha - who had from the moment their bond formed remained mostly calm and controlled, asides from the usual spikes in her love and affection whenever they joined, or the sheer pride that warmed his heart whenever she was particularly pleased… he didn't know, he truly didn't.

Jamie guessed that, till that moment when the English had caught her and Dougal, the both of them had been rather fortunate.

Sure, a lassie had lost her life, but God, he had been granted a rare woman, and he had done his best to love her well.

Why, they had even started to plan how to leave the MacKenzies and reach Lallybroch, how to clear his name, how to… to start a family together. She had moved her gold ring onto her right hand, and even if he still had no ring for her - his Sorcha had convinced him that it would be too conspicuous yet - there in her left hand, her left ring finger to be precise, was carved a small J, just as in his own there was a small C.

And, of course, the pink scar lines in their wrists, where they had sealed their oath in blood, as they would now seal their oath in a Kirk. He even had the ring she wouldn't yet wear on his sporran, for which he had sent Murtagh to melt the silver brooch the MacKenzies would have burdened him with, deciding it would do better as a sign of his love than a brand of his uncle...

Thing is, they hadn't truly been  _ parted _ by any amount of time. He could always find her at her surgery, or simply follow the thread connecting them to wherever she'd gone to help. She, in turn, always seemed to make time to bring him food at the stables, to the point of Auld Alec merely grunting and dismissing him when the graceful, astonishingly beautiful form of his wife,  _ his wife _ was seen approaching.

So  _ feeling _ her distress and not knowing  _ why _ or being at hand to help, he… he was going mad. His ghoistidh certainly had to think him so, seeing him come and go in a frenzy, having to keep him from taking Donas and galloping straight to Claire more than once.

Truth is, when they were  _ finally back _ and he learned that that bastard Randall had harmed her, he… he dearly wished he had gone, that he had barged in and rid the world of his wretched existence for once and for all.

But by then, he was actually brushing down the horses and Claire had sent him wave after wave of shaking comfort in the midst of her clearly buzzing thoughts.

He wasn't quite sure, then, of what drew him from the thoughtless motions and his unwavering focus on his link to Claire, beyond the prickling feeling of it being related to  _ her,  _ somehow.

"... We do not have much time. Captain Randall is expecting Mistress Beauchamp to be delivered to him tomorrow."

_ 'Iffrin, he'll get my sword in his throat before touching her again!' _

His composure held, however, greatly helped by having Claire close and  _ safe,  _ so he listened to Ned Gowan without a peep, even if the horse's snort made clear  _ he _ at the very least wasn't fooled.

"Now, we are all to embark on a boat made entirely of paper. The letter of the law is the only thing keeping Claire out of Randall's hands. And so if this is to work, we have to follow it to the letter."

Jamie felt where this was going, and part of him rejoiced.

Keeping their marriage vows secret had pained him, even if he was well aware that announcing their marriage so swiftly right beneath Colum's roof, when a lassie widely known to be obsessed with him had appeared dead under rather strange circumstances, would have been far from wise. Yet this…

"The marriage must be consummated right away," Ned Gowan was saying right around then, and Jamie knew well that he would inflict violence upon whoever so happened to attempt to propose themselves as the groom. That was, after all,  _ his wife _ whom they were planning to have wed and bedded. "And witnesses must swear that they were present in the building, if not in the room itself."

These last words had made any and all attempt to pretend he wasn't all ears to vanish, his whole body turning just in time to see Dougal agreeing with it all.

And why, of course he would. Jamie was more than observant enough to tell his uncle harboured rather lustful thoughts towards his wife, even if his attempt to assault her the night of the Oath Taking, the night of their joining, hadn't more than cleared things in that regard.

Still, Ned's  _ laughter _ at the very idea of people witnessing his  _ wife, _ hearing her wee noises, it… no. It was unbearable even to think about it.

"Does Claire know about all of this?"

If she  _ didn't _ he would have to inform her right away, and not for the first time he wished words could be passed through this link of theirs.

"She has no say in the matter," replied Dougal, and for that, more than his many grievances, Jamie could have given him a match to the axe wound that still scarred his scalp and left him tuneless.

A glance, however, was enough for his ghoistidh to interfere.

"I thought you didn't hold with rape, Dougal."

"No rape," he had the utter shameleness to say. "Persuasion."

Jamie had turned back to the horse to regain a measure of poise, for even he had a hard time right then keeping himself from reacting rashly. Mayhaps it was just the overall conversation, or the wavering maelstrom he still felt from Claire, but...

Having Dougal approach  _ him _ of all people didn't much help things, even if at least his murderous rage subsided. For the moment.

"She's a smart lass. She'll see the reason for it in the end,  _ but _ there can be no secret agreements between the two of ya, you saying that you  _ have _ when you have not."

He was the chosen candidate, then, so this could be… well, this could be twisted to their favour.

For probably the first time in his life, Jamie considered himself quite glad of his uncle's desperation to get him disqualified for the position of Laird of the MacKenzies, little as he had ever cared or wanted for the title.

Him marrying Claire - in the open, at least - was sure to enrage Colum, yet when offered such a perfect offer to make their marriage official to the eyes of God and men… Jamie could not refuse.

"Besides," continued Dougal," I can think of far worse things than holding onto that sweet pair of ciochan, plunging my cock-"

"Yeah, enough!"

Were he to keep speaking, Jamie would punch him without a shred of remorse. Dougal was already owed far worse.

"If Claire  _ does _ become my wife," he said at last, fully knowing that she already was, and viciously glad that soon everyone would know it as well, "I'll thank you to stop talking and thinking of her like some common whore!"

He left the stable in a huff, more upset about their vulgar words towards  _ his wife _ than the rather harried idea of the wedding, promptly stopped on his way by his uncle.

Of course, he knew he would do so, for as much as he himself longed for Claire, his wife remained very much alive. So, truly, for Dougal there could be no other candidate than Jamie, not when having him marry an Englishwoman would set him far lower on the inheritance of the regency for Hamish than him.

"Hey! If? There is no  _ if _ about this, laddie. Now, she took a few blows at the hands of Randall and kept silent, which is a fair sight more than I'd expect from any ordinary woman. But you _ know _ Randall. You  _ know _ what he is capable of. What do you think'll happen to her if she falls into his hands again?"

There was no  _ if, _ he knew this already. But with Dougal forced to make some effort in  _ convincing _ him to marry his Sorcha, well, some things could be obtained.

Things he had been unable to give her that night at the stables, in her surgery, or the many nights that followed.

* * *

**_The Night of the Oath Taking, Castle Leoch_ **

Jamie would never forget that night.

He'd been woken up from a rather shamefully pleasant dream with Mistress Beauchamp, to have her dropped as if from his very dreamlands into his arms, his sgian dhu quickly discarded to the side.

She had seemed to be in a daze, pupils wide and breath hurried, even as her fingers dug into his shoulders, drifting towards his back when he made to rise.

To be free of her hold should have been easy, soft and gentle lass that she was, yet right then she was inescapable, her eyes focusing at last on his own, and in the process, killing any wish to put any distance between them.

Even if she admitted to having killed a lass with a smile on her lips.

He was truly gone and done for her. Claire Beauchamp had captured his heart, and he was unable and unwilling to demand it back.

No. All he wanted was...

The MacKenzies rushed into the stables, and walked all around them, yet seemed to miss their entwined bodies on the ground.

Jamie would have wondered how, but his world had narrowed to golden eyes, which had been hazel that very morning, when he had sneaked a peek at her before hiding away, and the warmth of her thighs around his hips even through all their layers.

He wanted her, badly. More than he had ever wanted anyone, and as the men left the stables at last, the silence lasted only an instant before their lips met.

It was perfection, that kiss. A true meeting of the souls, as their breath mingled, and he could almost feel a thread of fate tightening around them. Strengthening with every frenzied kiss.

No, but he couldn't, he shouldn't, he…

He was kissing her throat, as her fingers dug into his hair, legs rising around him to pull him further  _ in _ and all he wanted was to drown in her, in her skin, and her sweet scent, like those medicines she was always collecting.

Yet, the question escaped him, as he panted against her neck, as he rose just enough for her to pull up her skirts, and his kilt, as his bare legs met the intoxicating softness of her inner thighs and the sinful caress of her stockings.

_ "Marry me, Claire, please…" _

She was already making wee noises that made him desperately want to sink into her wet softness, yet he… could not… no, he had to…

His right hand left her thigh to frantically search for the sgian dhu he had previously discarded, which had apparently been kicked towards her legs by one of his pursuers, and rather abruptly set it flat by her head.

In her startlement, her fingers freed him, and so he rose at last, putting much needed distance between them.

"Marry me, Claire. Here and now. We can be handfast, and God be our witness."

She was still panting, the skirts of her dress haphazardly pulled up, pooling at her middle with his kilt, legs still invitingly open, and oh, he longed to sink himself in her.

Yet their gazes remained sharp, and met.

This, they understood on a level neither could quite express.

Jamie wanted her, loved her, felt their connection as surely as she did, yet needed, from her, before they merged in this way, an assurance. An agreement. A promise.

Commitment.

"A blood vow?"

Her gaze had already drifted towards his blade, before going back to him.

"Yes. A light cut. And an oath."

"In Gaelic?"

"Follow my lead?"

Golden eyes focused on his, analyzing. Whatever she must have seen then, she easily enough joined their hands again, his left to her left, heart to heart, and made a cut in their wrists with a mere gesture of her fingers that told him his bride was quite able to slice anything to shreds if needed.

He grasped at the white length of fabric he had carefully washed and kept in his sporran from all the way back to their first night at Leoch, and wrapped their wrists together. Hands closing onto their forearms, two souls merging at last.

Making the knot was somewhat difficult, but they managed. And with their eyes on the other, he led the oath. Making the ritual together.

_ "Is tu fuil ‘o mo chuislean, is tu cnaimh de mo chnaimh. _

_ Is leatsa mo bhodhaig, chum gum bi sinn ‘n ar n-aon. _

_ Is leatsa m’anam gus an criochnaich ar saoghal." _

They whispered this together, wrapped in a darkness akin to a womb's, only the faintest hints of moonlight reaching them.

He told her what it meant, right after, but there was no real need. Even if she still didn't understand Gaelic beyond the odd word she had become too accustomed to hear, the blood oath had settled as theirs merged, and she could  _ feel it _ inscribing itself in their souls, like their very own thread of destiny, wrapping the already existing one into their own and making it  _ theirs _ to the fullest extent. Blood magic was, after all, particularly strong.

With blood of royalty, blood of a chosen line, blood of the casters and blood of a virgin in one ritual…

_ Virgin? Oh… Oh, dearest... _

There was a feeling, still, like a ritual half done. And as she at last felt him come into her, with every stroke and every gasp, they both felt it cement within the very core of their beings.

**_'Ye are Blood of my Blood, and Bone of my Bone._ **

**_I give ye my Body, that we Two might be One._ **

**_I give ye my Spirit, 'til our Life shall be Done.'_ **

A vow in blood, a vow in flesh, a blood in seed. An oath, between two beings whose true nature was brought to the fore by their union. A promise, between Fae.

Such things, most know, only the most witless of fools would dare to break. And there, where their ring fingers met the palm, the other's inicial appeared, as if carved. The bond had been, at last, established.

* * *

Their first joining had been… quick. But, in a way, that had been a mercy, for after they'd regained their bearings, she had led her new husband towards her surgery, and a proper bed.

They had locked the door behind them, and talked for hours.

His family, and hers, their likes and dislikes… just getting to know each other further, laugh together. Letting their bond settle even as they felt each other's emotions more and more.

There, in that bed, too small for the two of them, the remains of her white dress had been unknotted and set aside, as their wrists and fingers healed rather nicely, if far too fast.

Nor Claire nor Jamie could mind, however. They had gotten nicely distracted by ridding the other of their clothing, exploring their bodies and their wants in between their talks.

For the first time in forever, Claire felt  _ whole. _ And by Jamie's smile, he shared this strange feeling too. Like having a piece you didn't know was missing just… click into place.

* * *

Their bond only deepened with every passing day, every frenzied, loving night.

It got harder and harder to hide, and by the time the hunt came upon them - and oh, but he could  _ feel _ Claire's rage as Geordie's life flowed beneath her hands, when he knew by then that she, had she had the proper tools at hand, could have saved him. Knowing she would blame herself for it - things had escalated to such a point that Murtagh was far from the only one giving them weird looks. And  _ he,  _ at the very least, had learned of their handfasting.

And if there were some rumours of the uppity Mistress Beauchamp having taken a lover, well. They were rather ruthlessly put down by those she'd healed. Which by then, were many.

So, in a way, being strong armed into collecting the rents with Dougal was a blessing.

* * *

**_Winter Court, Unseelie Realm. Château Neige_ **

He felt it, the moment his daughter met her mate.

Felt it in the sudden addition to his House, in the balance shifting.

Henry wasn't exactly thrilled that her choice, once freed from that ephemeral mortal of hers, would be of a different Court. But, with her lack of knowledge of her nature and her fate, he had to guess it was better all around for her not to know yet.

Her new husband had had the blood of the Fey in him already, even if his stank of Summer and the Seelie Court. He even had  _ the spark, _ something surprising for someone so distant from the source.

With a sigh, and a gesture to the ever near Claude, he soon found himself drafting the marriage contract between the bastard scion of his House and the previously unknown - even to Maev's spies, which was… astounding on its own - bastard of the…

_ "Château Bleau? How could it be? Hadn't that younger child of theirs vanished?" _

_ "If she did, it would have been to the mortal world, Milord. There are rumours still to be discovered." _

_ "Then go forth and discover them. And file the marriage file. Add them to the records, oui?" _

He could feel Claude's reluctance, and sighed.

_ "I've granted her as much time as I could. She will succeed or she will win, on her own merits. Remain cheerful, Claude. My daughter has ensured that new husband of hers won't leave her like the first." _

She remained the only one to truly survive her 21st birthday. His only child left. Yet, if she was ready to share her lifeline with that boy of hers… well. Every parent has to let their children learn to fly, don't they?

* * *

**_Dreamlands_ **

The Daughter was, as usual, dressed in red. Her protective gear was a flimsy white that let the vivid colour beneath show through, and her gloves were just as see through.

The tools were all in place, and the table was ready. She was only lacking the subject.

"Mother," she called out at last, seeing no prompt on the screen before her. They had long past moved from the usual titles. "Where is him?"

**_Daughter, the body has already received the proper rites. In the year 1945, Franklin Wolverton Randall has received proper burial, and it is assumed the both of you perished in an attack._ **

A scalpel clatters onto the ground. She can feel a growl start just at the back of her throat, and something within her breaks.

"A widow is owed a corpse, Mother. He was mine. I should have been allowed to put him to rest. Yet having woken up in a new place, could at least his corpse not be sent to me?"

Time worked in strange ways, she knew. The dreamlands were eternal and unchanging. Within them she had spent well over a century, simply learning, and learning, and learning.

Now, in the fuzzy way she recalled whatever happened Outside, Daughter was aware that she had been officially remarried for all the world to see.

The witness threads of all those who had attended her second wedding had strengthened it, braiding together in a protective sheen.

**_Mortals are not allowed through the pathways, Daughter. Living or dead, he could not have gone through._ **

Daughter wanted, for what seemed like the first time ever, to scream at Mother. At the unwavering presence that had led her through endless teachings, without ever showing itself.

"He was  _ mine. _ His soul was mine, and so I took it. His heart was mine, and so I ate it. His body was mine, and so  _ I must be the one to settle it. _ Mother, this one knows your reach is endless, and so I humbly ask for his corpse, for I have wed again, and before my womb can quicken with child, my first husband should have peace."

It would be  _ so easy, _ for one such as Mother. To set hands on that moment, wherein Frank's blood had covered her body, and drag him towards her.

What was time and space, to the Dreamlands? To Mother? She, who had been her Mistress from as early as she could recall, who had made her the being she now was, despite the trappings of humanity still keeping her subdued.

Franklin Wolverton Randall had been useless, yes, but not for anything he could  _ help _ . The man had given her the whole absolute extent of his devotion, as he should, and having given his life to keep her being whole, beyond the Dreamlands… he was owed respect, at the very least.

**_Daughter, it cannot be. Be at peace, for the human already is. Set your mind on your new marriage, and the life soon to come upon you._ **

She screamed.

All her tools were thrown to the ground, and she felt the last thread of her first husband leave.

No. No, things could not end like that. A widow was owed a corpse.

"How many mortals have not graced this table? How many Fae? Low and High, all were brought here. For me to tend to. For me to have. Yet the one corpse I'm  **_owed_ ** cannot be? Mother. No,  _ Mistress. _ I am owed a corpse. And I shall have it."

* * *

He dreams a dream of death and starlight, lost in a chaos he cannot quite name even as a crying baby draws his attention… well. Two crying babies.

The darkness is only briefly broken by the threads of fire consuming whatever remains in their path, yet a crib lies untouched in the middle of this endless void he finds himself in.

A boy and a girl, he knows as his eyes catch sight of them, without being able to tell how or why.

A boy and a girl,  _ his children, _ cooing and distractedly catching each other's hands as if the whole world wasn't burning around them.

It shouldn't be surprising, he guesses in the end. His beautiful Sorcha could annihilate the whole world, and through it all, the three of them would remain untouched, for they were hers, in blood and flesh and soul.

The very thought makes him blink, as he hears an increasing pitching sound that threatens to destroy his eardrums. Louder and louder, closing in.

The halo of moonlight over the children remains, yet the endless, voracious darkness threatens to swallow him whole.

And right then, as he thinks it just may, a hand on his shoulder freezes him in place.

It is cold, even through his clothing, ice seeping into him as if to burn away his life.

He knows right then of the fire they had tried to make her submit to, and how foolish it had been of them to think that such a man made flame would be even remotely enough to harm her, Daughter of Winter that she is.

_ "Love," _ she says, and though he knows she means to sound affectionate, the cold fury that has taken her over makes it sound nothing but eerie in the worst ways.  _ "Do you, too, think I am a Witch?" _

He blinks, tilts his head, ponders.

Jamie has long known she isn't a normal woman, from the very first time they met. God, or the universe, whatever power brought their paths to meet… Claire remains the part of his life, his soul, he had never even realized was missing.

"Sorcha," he replies at last, lightly rocking the cradle. "You could be the very Devil and I would love you still. Blood of my blood, bone of my bone, ye ken? Always and forever."

He hasn't turned towards her, his eyes fixed in the black-haired boy and the red-haired girl, slowly falling asleep. It isn't needed, and something within tells him she wouldn't appreciate his eyes on her right then.

_ "Jamie… Jamie, I'll have to do this. I… I was  _ **_invited_ ** _ , a guest of the MacKenzies, yet…" _

He knew. Oh, he knew. She had already let pass many grievances solely due to his blood relation to the MacKenzies. Yet this… if she were to forget and forgive  _ this, _ an attack upon her just as life finally sparkles within her womb, out of the petty vengeance of a mortal wholly unrelated to her, whose brother had already tried to assault her… well.

"It is alright, Mo Nighean Donn. My love for you… this is nothing to it."

And as he feels her relief, her satisfaction, and the world around him starts to vanish with his awakening, he knows there is nothing she could ever do, that he couldn't forgive her.

* * *

There was an itch just beneath her skin, a pitch in her ears that she cannot stop, shadows dancing in the corner of her sight.

This is a feeling she is sadly becoming used to, as the world itself seems to reach and poke her, to whisper and suggest things she would rather not do.

She had often found herself staring at the night sky, back in France.

Seeing the glittering stars and shamefully wishing she was anywhere but where she was, because the endless parade of broken men she gave her all to fix was taking its toll on her soul and mind.

Back then, it was just a hunch. A void within, doing its utmost to reach beyond the confines of her body, of her senses and area of control.

Claire had blamed such silly notions on the ongoing fight against both the Germans and starvation, a brief make believe within her.

Now it cannot be denied any longer.

Not as the men rush to and fro in order to fulfill the tasks Jamie set for their wedding, not as she curls up in the attic and does her best to contain even a measure of this force that may just tear her to shreds in its longing for freedom.

A warm hand reaches beneath the ratty cover she had hid under and sets itself on her shoulder, receiving little reaction for Claire had long felt his approach.

"Sassenach, what is it?"

Jamie sneaks into her side, and she curls into him, shaking from head to toes.

"I cannot… Cannot… Cannot keep it in for much longer, Jamie… It wants out…"

His hands caress her back, and she is too delirious to appreciate the gesture overmuch.

The part of her she recognizes as  _ her own self _ is dying a slow yet inexorable death, and there is little she can do about it.

Yet here, now, her husband takes her in, his warmth briefly yet surely establishing a barrier between her and the endless void, and oh, she drinks him in.

For a moment she cannot care, of the corpse she is owed, of the death she hasn't truly mourned well, of the impending confrontation she feels like static upon her skin.

She drinks him in, magnificent, endless fountain that he is, and hardly protests as dawn takes him from her side.

Claire will be woken later, from her sweet sleep, and be guided into her wedding dress as her consciousness fights to remain steady.

That night, she will join her husband officially, witnesses making merry just below and trying to sneak peaks on them, wearing both the silver ring he gives her at midnight and the iron ring he gave her at the chapel.

And she rests at last, and sleeps. Feels whole in her husband's arms.

Deep within, a sparkle ignites, a decision is made. She will have a corpse, and she will have life.

So just as she feels the conception occur within her, days after, the bothersome buzzing of the stones too close to ignore, and tells Willie she wants to go to Jamie… it doesn't surprise her overmuch to have the Redcoats assault them.

For death brings life, and life brings death… and a widow is owed a corpse.


End file.
